DUCKDIENASTY.RM
I’m a huge fan of Duck Dynasty, much like everyone else. I don’t think I’ve ever seen glitchy or hacked Duck Dynasty merchandise before, but I don’t think I want to after the experience I had.
It started when the postman, who I notice is wearing a super creepy fake beard that obscures his eyes and forces the reader to ignore the tense swap in the middle of this sentence, arrived at precisely 9:37:58 AM CDT, left a rain-soaked cardboard box on my doorstep, and vanished with a laugh that reminded me of Tim Curry—though not the Tim Curry from “It” or even “The Hunt For Red October;” this was the Tim Curry from “Clue,” the spookiest murder mystery of all time.
I left my old, rundown split-level after about forty-six seconds of horrified soul-searching and finally summoned the courage to pick up the package.
It was addressed to Hank T. Chog (That’s my name, though not my real name for reasons of safety and possibly security), 666 Beelzebub Drive, Hell, MI 48169. There was no return address, so I had no choice but to open it up and find out what I had been sent.
I unfolded my Kershaw Duck Commander® knife and cut open the packing tape, careful not to push too hard as I slid the knife toward myself—I didn’t want to accidentally damage whatever might be inside.
Inside the package, along with an evil grammar demon with the power to change tenses at will, is an exquisitely carved duck call, a Laserdisc marked DUCKDIENASTY.RM, and a note. It reads:
KYLE STOP PLEASE HELP ME STOP I COULD NOT RESIST THE CALL STOP DESTROY THE DISC AND THE CALL OR IT WILL ENSNARE YOU TOO STOP I CANNOT DO IT STOP IT IS TOO LATE FOR ME STOP IF YOU DO NOT ACT SOON IT MAY NEVER STOP
“Well,” I thought aloud with a sudden mid-Atlantic accent, “that was certainly strange. I haven’t received a telegram since nineteen-aught-six.” I knew it was a bad idea right from the start, but something came over me. I felt . . . possessed . . . almost. I walked briskly into my living room, popped DUCKDIENASTY.RM into my LaserDisc player, and plopped onto the couch with a piping hot pepperoni Hot Pocket and a hot fudge sundae. As the LaserDisc splash screen appeared on the screen, accompanied by the THX sound played in reverse, I jumped, spilling the Hot Pocket off the plate. It would have landed on my shamefully small penis (I never wear pants when I’m watching Duck Dynasty, obviously) but luckily it became stuck on my beard. I pulled it out and wiped the excess beard hairs on my napkin, then continued eating as the disc played.
The recording began with the tail end of an advertisement for Jeff’s Killer Bleach, and I shuddered in memory of what that product did to my clothes when I tried it—my favorite Duck Dynasty t-shirt was burned to ashes on contact! As the advertisement ended, an episode of my favorite TV show of all time, Duck Dynasty, began. Willie and Jase were trying to redneckify quantum physics by replacing all the wavefunctions with Si’s face and introducing a new operator, the Robertsonian, which determines the Americanness of a particle in Planck Freedoms. They seemed about to succeed, when suddenly Willie’s incredibly handsome son Jean-Luc John Luke busted in, a worried expression on his absurdly British French beautiful face.
“Dad, Jase, y’all gotta stop! Y’all’re gonna mess up the space-time continuum if y’keep playin’ around with the laws a physics an’ such!” The show cut to the usual interview over background defocused stock footage with Willie facing the camera—clearly it was composited using Autodesk Smoke 2011. He shook his head.
“I done told that John Luke a thousan’ times, ‘there ain’t but one law on this Earth, and it’s the law of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.” The show returned to WIllie, Jase, and John Luke in front of a chalkboard covered in equations and poorly drawn penises. Still unsure, John Luke sat down in a comfy-looking swivel chair and considered the math. He furrowed his brows and turned to his father, puzzled.
“I just don’ see it, Dad,” he said. “The symmetry of the system jus’ don’t allow y’all to cancel the imaginary part of the wavefunction—an’ I’m pretty sure the total energy ain’t equal to some dude’s junk.”
“That ain’t just ‘some dude,’ John Luke!” Jase interrupted. “That there’s ''my ''family jewels.”
Just then Si opened the door, got on the floor, and did the Dinosaur.
“What’s gotten into him?” Jase said.
“Ain’t nothin’, Jase,” Si said, picking himself up. “Check out this here new Duck Commander® I’m working’ on.” He produced an artfully made duck call—a call so masterfully crafted I could swear it would reroll ones to hit and wound against ducks of all kinds. The reed and barrel were shaped into the figure of a slender woman and appeared to be carved from ivory or bone. Si pressed his lips to the reed and blew, but before any sound could be heard the screen cut to red and black static, and the cosmic microwave background radiation appeared hyperrealistic, as if you could actually feel the texture of the Big Bang if you touched the screen. The screen then went completely black except for five words which I will never forget as long as I live:
BLOOD MALLARD
HEAR ITS CRY
These words stayed on the screen for five minutes and twelve seconds, then the show slowly faded back in. It appeared to be a different scene, with the Robertsons behind a duck blind waiting for a skein of Welsh Harlequins to come into range of their shotguns. With any luck, the breed would soon be one step closer to extinction at the hands of Remington and Sons. It was boring and predictable, just as it had been all those years . . . yet I couldn’t forget what I had seen.
BLOOD MALLARD
My eyes were scared as my mind filled with the scent of murder.
HEAR ITS CRY
That night I lay (or lie—I’m not too sure) awake, unable to sleep for fear of what would happen. Nothing in particular occurred, except that from 12:24:04 to 6:33:15 AM I could hear the faint sound of a duck call being blown over and over. Because I was am expert at identifying duck calls, I could tell the sound was coming from a Duck Commander®, probably the Green Stick of Death I’d seen several times on Duck Dynasty. This specific call is used as a confidence call for mallard drakes and is available for purchase at http://duckcommander.com/node/765 for $19.99 if my memory serves me correctly. I assumed my dog, Fido, had gotten hold of the call that had been mailed to me, but that one didn’t look anything like the Green Stick of Death. I was curious, but I remembered that curiosity kills everyone, so I ignored it and got on with my day.
I hopped out of bed, took a shower, dressed in a plaid shirt and black dress pants with red Converse All Stars and grey wool socks, ate a bowl of cornflakes, and drove to work. Because my truck is really slow—not much faster than my ATV, despite having flame decals—I had to leave about a half hour earlier than most people do.
I arrived at my local Cabela’s, where I stock shelves, and prepared for a long, hard day of sweat and the grinding of wood on cardboard. I entered the stock room and was greeted by a pile of boxes full of merchandise, which would have to be moved from the loading dock to the shelves and sorted—the new Cabela’s Dangerous Hunts game had been released that morning and we knew hundreds of eager gamers would line up just for a chance to own a copy. I didn’t blame them; this was the long-awaited sequel to Dangerous Hunts 2011, where we finally see what becomes of Cole Rainsford and the militarized animals imported to America. The game was subtitled, “Rise of the Planet of the Kaftars,” and would detail the demon-hyenas’ eventual worldwide military takeover and Cole’s one-man war against them. Even the critics had spoken: the game was pe
rfect. 7/10 IGN.
About halfway through my day (so about 3:30 or so) I was interrupted by a sound I recognized as the Duck Dynasty title music, and I realized my cell phone was ringing. I put down the case full of Colt M1911A1 pistols I was moving to another shelf and answered.
“Hello, Hank. I bet you know who this is.” Because my phone is a 1987 DynaTAC, I didn’t have CallerID, so I was forced to guess. I hoped my guess was right, since I only had about five minutes of battery life.
“Bootman Bill?”
“No, guess again.”
“Sonic the Hedgehog?”
“Getting warmer…”
“…''Satan?''” The person on the other end began to cackle with a demoniac fury that could only belong to Lucifer himself , and I knew it was true. “What do you want from me?”
“Your SOUL!”
“Never! I’m a good, G*d-fearing Christian like all Duck Dynasty fans and you’ll never take my fucking soul!”
“Forget it, I have to try that with everybody. Anyway, I have a friend coming to ask you for a favor, and you'd be wise to do as he says. I think you’ll know him when you see him. He’ll be there any second now.” I heard the dial tone and pressed the off button. I was about to get back to work, thinking maybe there had been a glitch in the phone company, when I heard the door to the Cabela’s open and close. In walked a man dressed in RealTree camouflage and holding a similarly camouflaged Remington Model 870 pump-action shotgun. He looked me straight in the eye and raised his weapon. Then I recognized him: it was Beaux Robertson, John Luke’s fictional cousin!
“Howdy, Hank,” he said with a maleficent grin. “I need you to do me a favor.” Terrified that I would soon be a red oval gradient on the wall behind me, I replied. I was too scared to press the silent alarm button under the counter.
“What is it?"
“This store has somethin' I want, and you’re gonna get it for me.”
“What’s that?”
“A full setta autographed Duck Commander® Signature Series calls.” I gasped. Those were my boss’ pride and joy! He kept the calls in a glass case above his desk and would do anything to keep them safe.
“All right,” I said. “How long do I have?”
“One hour. If I get back and you ain't got the calls, then your next meal is a mouthfulla 00 buck.” He left the store with an evil smile and vanished into a dark cloud of smoke, leaves, and official Duck Dynasty T-shirts that fluttered away on the breeze. As the last of the leaves settled to the ground, I knew there was only one way to steal the duck calls: a sneaking mission.
With my skull suit on and my AP sensor equipped, I knew I would be nearly undetectable, but I would still have to keep my wits about me as I slinked into the stockroom. I was in luck; my boss was still hungover from the weekend and was asleep on a chair in the middle of the room. Since his desk was on the other side of the room and the right-hand side was covered in boxes full of Dangerous Hunts 20X6, I would have to make my way around the other side, which I could see was positively lousy with mousetraps (we have a rodent problem), bubble wrap (from packing up the remaining copies of Dangerous Hunts 20X5), and landmines (a new product from O’Verkyll Outdoor Equipment).
On my way to my boss’s desk—making sure to stay as quiet as possible and time my steps with my boss’s snoring—I picked up three other Duck Commander® calls to replace the ones I was about to steal; this way my boss wouldn’t realize immediately that he had been robbed, and also so that I have an excuse to namedrop some more official Duck Commander® products: the Mule, Ole Raspy, and the Camo Max.
When I finally reached the desk, I pulled out my official Duck Commander® Polaris handheld laser cutter and cut a hole in the glass case. I could have just opened it with the handle, of course, but lasers are just so much more awesome. I pulled out the three autographed calls and replaced them with the generic ones, then put the glass back.
When I returned from the stockroom, successful in my mission, Beaux was there waiting for me, shotgun aimed at my chest.
“Ya got ‘em?” he asked. I nodded and handed over the three calls. He began to laugh maniacally, his voice lowering to an unsettling bass. “Finally!” he shouted. “My apotheosis will be complete! With the sacred calls of Willie, Si, and Jase, I can enter this world permanently and become a real Robertson!”
The duck calls began to glow. The signatures of the Robertsons burned bright yellow and streamers of light flowed from the calls into Beaux. Then suddenly it all stopped. The glow faded and the streamers cut off. Beaux looked terrified and angered.
“No!” he screamed. “It was supposed to work. It had to work! Was the essence of the Robertsons not enough? What more do I need?”
As far as I could tell, all the ritual accomplished was a tense swap. Beaux and the calls I stole for him vanish in a storm of smoke, leaves, and T-shirts like before, and the rest of the work day goes as usual. My boss never even notices that his precious calls are gone.
When I arrived home, I plopped down on the couch, exhausted and confused, and picked up my remote, ready to relax with my favorite TV show, Duck Dynasty. As I aimed the remote at the screen, I suddenly saw it again: the duck call I’d been sent along with DUCKDIENASTY.RM was sitting on the table, beckoning me to blow it. I began to feel a deep sense of dread as curiosity drove me forward. I failed to remember that curiosity kills everyone, and grasped the call.
I examined it more closely as I held it in my hands, and I realized I had seen it before: this was the call Si was about to blow when I first saw those hideous words:
BLOOD MALLARD
HEAR ITS CRY
Unable to resist, I slowly drew it up to my lips and made a “tut” sound. I didn't hear the sound at first, but after an eerily realistic pause I heard a sound like glass scratching on concrete. It was so loud I felt my ears bleeding and I tried to stop but the dreadful cry continued. It was the scariest thing I'd ever heard, and I began to cry as the noise drilled into my skull. I collapsed onto my living room floor, and as I fell my head collided with the coffee table. The last thing I can remember from that night is a short, sharp shock to my left temple; not so much a pain as just some random feeling. How wrong I was to dismiss it as such.
When I awoke, I realized I was strapped to a bed in some kind of interrogation room.
"Finally, he's awake," said a familiar voice from the back corner. It was Beaux, who walked around to face me. In his hand he held the Instrument of Death itself, the Blood Mallard call. "I must thank you for finding this—it will save me a great deal of trouble."
"What do you want from me? Where am I?"
"Why, you're in Louisiana, of course. In a few hours I'll be paying the Robertsons a little visit, but first there's something I need from you."
"But the ritual didn't work! You vanished!" Beaux laughed.
"I thought so too, at first. Then I realized only the first part of the ritual was complete. There remains an additional step, which you have provided the means to carry out." He held up the call. "You see, there is a fourth component to the ritual. Collecting all the Signature Series calls opens the door to Robertsonhood, but to walk through that door requires a call fashioned by a Robertson's own two hands—Si's, in this case. And conveniently, this particular call has the ability to bind fictional cousins to the real world, so I won't even have to worry about soul degradation, which—If I'm honest—was something I'd been a little apprehensive about. But now I can become more powerful than I ever imagined, and all that stands in my way is ''you''! Now blow into this call once more, Hank, so I can take my place at John Luke's side as a real Robertson!"
TO BE CONTINUED
IMMEDIATELY
I stared, struck dumb by Beaux's diabolical plan and my own role in it. As Beaux finished his scene-chewing monologue, he thrust that accursed call into my mouth and commanded me to blow. I shook my head back and forth, resisting.
"It's no use!" he cackled. "Take this!" Suddenly I became aware of my University of Phoenix class ring slipping from my finger, and thus distracted, I was caught off guard and before I knew it the duck call was between my lips. Beaux pulled his right arm back and delivered a jab to my stomach, forcing a breath to rise from my diaphragm and vibrate the reeds. The Blood Mallard call echoed through the room, and Beaux released his grip on me as he prepared for the ritual's success. He raised his arms up into the Richard Nixon pose and drew his lips into an evil grin—at least ten times more evil than it had been before. A baleful glow coalesced into a black halo around Beaux's head, and I was so scared I could barely breathe. He seemed to draw in all the light from the room. I half expected him to just vanish again, but he didn't. He stayed. And the smile on his face became even darker and more evil than before.
"It is done!" he shouted. "I'm a Robertson now, a real Robertson! And finally my reign of terror can begin!"
I will describe myself as I see myself: I am a great soft jelly thing, having wasted away into a fat slob in front of Duck Dynasty. But I can't stop watching it. After Beaux Robertson joined the show it became impossible to resist watching. I quit my job. I eat nothing but Hot Pockets. I refuse to sleep so that I wouldn't miss the unending marathons of Duck Dynasty reruns. But most of all I play the Blood Mallard. As long as I have the air in my lungs I keep the dread music going. It became so second-nature to me that I can even blow the call while watching the show, and I don't even notice the sound. The sound is everything. The sound is eternal. I cannot stop. I have no life, and I must blow.
THE END?
YES, IT'S THE END.
Special thanks to Chip Cheezum, KC Green, and the gentlemen at Retsupurae and MichaelLeroi.
AND THEN A SKELETON POPPED OUT